Chapter 2

After that night, I barely slept.

Humiliation sat under my skin for days. I avoided both of them whenever I could.

When my best friend found out what had happened, she was furious.

I sat across from her, twisting the sleeve of my cardigan around my fingers, and said quietly, “It’s over. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll keep my distance from now on. If I don’t get too close, he won’t get another chance to shove me away.”

The worst-case scenario was simple enough.

We stayed civil. We stayed useful to each other.

My compatibility with them was high enough that I was the only one who could reliably calm them during rut. And the life they had built for themselves—their status, their wealth, the exclusive circles they moved in—gave me a stability I never could have reached on my own.

Maybe that was all this was.

A trade.

My friend was quiet for a moment before she asked, “So what now? Are you still going to make coffee for both of them every morning?”

I thought about it.

“Probably,” I said.

Keeping things polite still mattered to me.

She hesitated, then said, “But if you keep giving them both the exact same thing, is that really fair?”

Fair?

Because Adrian and Kieran were twins, and because my compatibility with both of them was unusually high, the Bureau counselors had told me the same thing from the start.

Balance mattered.

In a match like ours, fairness was everything.

Don’t favor one partner over the other. Don’t create instability in the household. Don’t make one feel overlooked, or the whole bond could sour.

I had taken that seriously.

So everything came in pairs.

Two cups every morning. Two gifts during the holidays. When I packed meals for them, I divided everything evenly, down to the last detail.

I had done all of that.

How was that not fair?

Seeing the confusion on my face, my friend leaned forward.

“That night,” she said carefully, “Kieran was the one who treated you badly, right? Adrian didn’t.”

I nodded.

He hadn’t just stayed quiet. He had punched Kieran for it.

And afterward—

My eyes dropped to the fading redness along my calf.

Adrian had knelt in front of me with the first-aid kit and treated the burn like it mattered. Before he left, he pressed a wrapped dark chocolate truffle from his coat pocket into my hand. He wiped my tears, told me to get some sleep, and later apologized for his brother.

And none of it had even been his fault.

Kieran was the one who had hurt me.

My friend watched my face and said, “Exactly. They act completely differently, but they still get the same reward. The same care. The same gifts. If Adrian is the one who’s kind to you, then isn’t treating them the same unfair to him?”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again.

I kept thinking about something from years ago, back when I was still in foster care.

One winter, our teacher stayed after school to clear out the classroom before break. While the other kids were goofing around in the hallway, I stayed behind to help stack books, wipe down shelves, and carry boxes to the supply closet until my arms ached.

Later, everyone in class got the same reward: paper treat bags filled with candy and little holiday trinkets.

Mine was exactly the same as everyone else’s. Even the kid who had spent most of the afternoon messing around instead of helping got one.

As I was leaving, my teacher stopped me.

Then she smiled, slipped a little bookstore gift card into my hand, and said, “The treat bags were for everyone. This is just for you.”

I remember staring down at it in my palm.

She smiled again and added, “Kids who help deserve a little extra. That’s what fair really looks like.”

That memory stayed with me long after she left.

The Bureau had told me fairness meant keeping everything equal.

But the teacher had taught me something else.

Maybe fairness wasn’t giving everyone the same thing.

Maybe it was giving more to the one who treated you better.

By morning, I knew which version made more sense to me.

The coffee was only the beginning.

At night, when we sat together in the living room, I stopped taking the middle seat on the couch. I sat closer to Adrian instead, leaving a clear stretch of space between Kieran and me.

In the mornings, I stopped setting out Kieran’s coffee altogether. If Adrian came into the kitchen, I slid his cup toward him and smiled at him alone.

If I had a question, I asked Adrian. If we went somewhere together, I stayed by Adrian’s side.

At dinner, if there was one portion left—the last slice of garlic bread, the best cut of steak, the final spoonful of mashed potatoes—I gave it to Adrian.

At first, it made me uneasy.

For so long, I had worked so hard to keep everything balanced that giving it up felt dangerous, like stepping off something narrow and high.

But very quickly, I realized the consequences weren’t nearly as bad as I had feared.

Adrian might be quiet, but he never humiliated me.

If I set his coffee beside him in the morning, he would thank me at once and ask how I had slept. If we went anywhere together, he would slow his steps to match mine and ask if I needed anything. When I cooked, he tasted everything and praised it with quiet sincerity.

And once I stopped forcing myself on Kieran, a lot of things stopped hurting too.

No more standing by the coffee station waiting for some sign that he even noticed what I had made for him.

No more walking beside him in public only for him to lengthen his stride and leave me behind because he hated being seen with me.

No more spending hours making dinner just to hear him complain that it was over-seasoned and barely edible.

For the first time in a long while, life inside that apartment felt softer.

I almost hid behind Adrian, the way something skittish might hide behind warmth.

And for a while, I let myself enjoy it.

Still, the atmosphere in the apartment began to shift.

Something turned tight and strange.

More than once, I felt his stare burning into my back.

Every time I turned around, Kieran was just sitting there, blank-faced, watching TV.

The last time it happened, he caught me glancing over and turned to me with a sneer.

“What?” he said. “You keep looking over here because you want to watch the game with me again?”

Once, I would have taken that as an invitation. Once, I would have crossed the room the moment he patted the cushion beside him.

Now, I only shook my head.

I wasn’t going to humiliate myself again.

Just then, Adrian came downstairs with a tennis racquet slung over one shoulder. I grabbed mine and followed him toward the door.

It was a new habit of ours. Over the past few weeks, he had started taking me to a private club outside the city, and we would stay out on the court for hours.

We had barely stepped into the hallway when something smashed behind us.

I turned at once.

Back in the living room, Kieran had hurled the remote onto the hardwood. It split apart and skidded across the floor.

His gaze was dark and fixed on Adrian’s hand around my wrist.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t a kind smile.

“Come on, brother,” he said softly. “This is getting pathetic.”

His eyes flicked to me, then back to Adrian.

“You really going to keep playing the hero?” he asked. “You’re acting like you actually like that pathetic little fool.”